


where we almost, nay more than married are

by branwyn



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: (i mean i tried), Angst, Fluff, Gift Giving, Happy Ending, Harold Finch is a mystery, Historically Accurate, Lionel Fusco is a gentleman farmer, M/M, Marriage Proposal, Shoot is offscreen, i guess it's a little kinky?, queer people finding ways to be happy in ye olde times, regency au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-12
Updated: 2021-01-12
Packaged: 2021-03-16 12:42:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,395
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28706856
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/branwyn/pseuds/branwyn
Summary: Mr. Finch, the stand-offish gentleman who lives at Ingram Park, invites his intimate friend and companion, Mr. Fusco, to visit him at home while the family are in town for the season.
Relationships: Harold Finch/Lionel Fusco, Root | Samantha Groves/Sameen Shaw
Comments: 7
Kudos: 12





	where we almost, nay more than married are

**Author's Note:**

  * For [livenudebigfoot](https://archiveofourown.org/users/livenudebigfoot/gifts).



> [The Flea,](https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/46467/the-flea) by John Donne

When the commotion sounds from the hall below, Finch only just remembers to lock his papers away before rising from his writing desk. There is but one visitor expected at Ingram Park today. Below stands his darling, dripping rainwater upon the carpet; neither the rains nor driving winds nor impassable roads have managed to keep him away. 

A millstone seems to roll off Finch's back.

From a distance, the housekeeper can be heard demanding Lionel's sodden coat and hat. Lionel answers her back with amiable good cheer, and the sound of his voice causes Finch to stop his hurrying a moment and lean upon his walking stick. He must take a moment to reflect. This much eagerness is not seemly. 

Mrs. Wells catches his eye when he finally ventures his approach.

"I've made up the same rooms for you that you had in the summer," she tells Lionel, hefting his wet things in her arms. "Will you be wanting tea in the parlor, Mr. Finch, or shall I bring a tray upstairs?"

"The parlor, I think, Mrs. Wells, where the fire is hottest." Finch offers Lionel his hand. "My dear Mr. Fusco, you are very welcome."

Lionel is some years younger than Finch, stouter, of ruddy complexion, and possessing an abundance of curling chestnut hair. Though he is merely a widowed farmer with one son, Berry Hill Farm is prosperous, and the Fusco name is an old and respected one in this part of the country. As a boy Lionel had run all over the parks and grounds of the Ingram estate with the dogs and the servants' children, and as such, it is almost a presumption for such an outsider as Finch to bid him welcome.

"There you are, sir." Lionel takes his hand and presses it with as much warmth as Finch's fond, fretting heart could wish. "What's this I hear of you turning all the servants out of doors?"

"All but the cook and Mrs. Wells and her maid. I sent the rest home to their mamas and wives and sweethearts for a holiday."

"Generous of you." 

"I assure you, the arrangement is entirely to my own advantage." Lionel continues to look inquiring. "I had a letter from Ingram. He will remain in town with Miss Root until after the end of the season."

Lionel's mouth parts as if he would speak, but a murmured, "I see," is all that comes of it.

"I therefore explained to Mrs. Wells that a single gentleman does not want so many servants to keep him when all other members of the family are absent, and that you will not spread tales about her housekeeping if we should have to tend our own fires tonight."

"I'll say nothing of Mrs. Wells, since it is no doing of hers. But perhaps I was looking forward to being waited on? Not all of us are fine gentlemen grown bored of soft living."

The blue parlor is twenty paces east of their position. Finch takes Lionel by the arm and shuts the door behind them. "You will not want for any convenience," Finch assures him. "I shall attend you myself."

"Then I s'pose we will see what kind of valet you make." Lionel darts back playfully as Finch advances on him. "Has Reese gone as well? If _he_ had a sweetheart in the village I would not be able to escape hearing of it."

The fire has been burning for a time in anticipation of Lionel's arrival. Finch, suddenly, decides that it needs to be built up again. 

"I would gladly loan you Reese's services," he says, poking the fire until the sparks fly, "but I have sent him abroad."

"Does he go into danger?" Lionel asks.

He shakes his head. Of Finch's work, and his true relationship to the Ingrams of Ingram Park, Lionel knows more than anyone living, but that is little enough. And today it is not relevant.

Lionel comes to stand next to Finch before the fire. This time, it is he who offers Finch his hand. Seizing it eagerly, Finch traces the shape of his fingers, then brings the fair plump wrist to his lips. He has hungered for this, but the purpose of his planning was to give them room to savor each other's company for once, and not to scramble.

"I have missed you sorely," he says, with a quiet sigh.

Mrs. Wells appears with tea soon after. She announces that dinner will be laid on for them at the usual time, in Mr. Finch's rooms. Lionel does not protest this modest arrangement, which seems to disappoint her. "Cook made beef pudding, especially on your account, Mr. Fusco," she tells him.

When she has gone, Lionel mutters, "To your cook I say, thank you very much for the pudding, but on the subject of being introduced to her young unmarried cousin in Brighton, I have not changed my mind."

"Wha-at?" cries Finch. "I have heard of no such scheme!"

"I shouldn't think so. Do the women here usually gossip with you about their beaux?"

Finch is forced to acknowledge that he has no pretext whatever for feeling slighted. "But you declined the introduction," he says, to reassure himself.

"All of them. From every mama in the village, seems like. They started in not two month after I buried Mrs. Fusco, you may believe."

It is indelicate to press, but Finch has always longed for information on this point. "I suppose most men would have been minded to marry quickly, if only to get a nurse for the child," he says suggestively.

Lionel snorts. "So the mamas often informed me." 

The purpose behind Finch's inviting Lionel to the house while the Ingram family is in town is two-fold: there is, first of all, the obvious reason, and then there is the matter of a certain Question, that Finch wants time and privacy to ask. 

He had thought at first to get the thing over with quickly, even within the first half-hour of Lionel's arrival. He had selected the blue parlor on purpose as a suitable place in which to embark on the subject. But then Lionel sneezes into a great lawn handkerchief, not once, but thrice in succession. 

"P'raps I ought to change into dry things," he ventures, blinking.

"Indeed," says Finch, alarmed. "You should have done so directly you came indoors. Reese would be ashamed of me." 

Lionel takes his arm up the stairs, and Finch leans into the solid warmth of him, perceptible even through his damp coat. The room prepared for Lionel by Mrs. Wells is nearby, but Finch guides him into his own small suite.

"See here." Lionel is cut off as Finch begins stripping off his damp clothing. "Very well, you may have my coat, but I draw the line—" Finch unbuttons Lionel's waistcoat and begins to tug at the hem of his shirt and the strings of his trousers. "Now, look you. I'm not standing here with my knees knocking—"

"Cease your fussing, I have other clothing for you."

"Ah." Lionel's brow wrinkles. The cold has heightened the color in his cheeks. "And how did you come by that?"

"I ordered it made for you. Here."

Over Lionel's sputtering, Finch drops a fresh linen shirt over his head, then wraps him up in a dressing gown. Lionel looks down at himself, dismayed. "Is it silk?" he demands.

"Certainly it is silk."

"You'll ruin me with your profligate ways."

"I am the only one who will ever see you in it." Finch runs his hands over the embroidered lapels. "It suits you handsomely."

"As it should. I won't ask what size purse you dropped on it." Still huffing, Lionel tries to fasten the ties, but Finch is there before him. "Where has my coat gone?"

"I will have it cleaned and returned to you."

"That's all very well, but there is something wrapped up in the pocket."

Finch looks. "The Donne, I see. Have you finished it?

"I have."

"And what do you make of it?"

"Rubbish," says Lionel, turning aside. "Filthy rubbish, at that."

Finch wheels on him, mouth agape, but when Lionel looks at him again his eyes are merry and bright.

"Give me novels over poetry any day." He points a finger at Finch. " _Ivanhoe_ , now that's what I call a fine evening by the fireside."

Finch scoffs. "Jousting knights and maidens locked in castle turrets? Romantic drivel."

"Better than your poet. Kept going on about fleas, of all damned things. I like a bit more romance than _that_ in a so-called love poem."

"The flea is metaphorical."

"Oh? And what's a metaphor, then? Is it French?"

"Incorrigible." Finch takes Lionel's delicate face in his hands. "You take delight in vexing me."

Lionel kisses him first. Never has he done so before, but the presumption gratifies Finch beyond words. He takes Lionel by the shoulders and begins shepherding him to the sofa without breaking contact between their bodies. The sofa takes Lionel in the knees, and when he falls he pulls Finch down atop him. 

"I had thought perhaps to wait until after dinner," Finch gasps against Lionel's neck, before licking away the mist that forms upon his skin.

"I may be able to oblige you after dinner as well."

"Do you think so?" exclaims Finch, delighted. 

The heavy silk dressing gown parts with a mere flick of his fingers, and then he is pulling up Lionel's shirt for the second time in the space of a few minutes. Fingers find flesh, and his body fills with warmth and comfortable lassitude. 

"There you are," Lionel whispers. "I hope his lordship is finding everything to his liking?"

"You should not mock me." Finch runs his hands down Lionel's chest and arms and sides, gentling him. "I desire nothing in the world but your happiness."

Lionel breathes sharply as Finch opens the front of his trousers. "Is that what you call it? Happiness? Worse names, I suppose."

Finch strikes him for his cheek, a mere glancing blow, leaving only a faint pink sting behind. In his hand, Lionel swells and surges. 

"It is only the truth," he murmurs. "All my happiness is in you."

For some time after that, nothing is said at all.

Lionel affects being deeply affronted when, at precisely ten minutes before eight of the clock, Finch pulls away and announces that they must make themselves decent to be seen by Mrs. Wells. "Do you mean to tell me that you were consulting that—that clockwork device of yours while I was beneath you?" he demands to know. 

Finch protests that, from boyhood, he has been gifted with a keen sense of time, and that the one failing of which Lionel cannot possibly accuse him is being inattentive when they coupled. "I do not claim to be the most skilled of lovers," he says, chiding, "merely the least likely to be distracted while in your company."

He presents Lionel then with a new suit of clothes, similar to what he had worn to Ingram Park but of softer linen, sturdier nankeen, finer stitching, the cut closer than ever Lionel would have ordered himself. The clothes fit beautifully, as Finch had known they would, but Lionel is not wholly comfortable. 

"I am on display," he mutters, looking behind and over his shoulder. "I'm not decent."

"The shape of your limbs is anything but indecent, my dear," says Finch.

"The shape of my arse is another matter, Mr. Finch. Do I dare sit myself down in these trousers?"

Finch shoos him out of the dressing room and through the door of the modest sitting room that adjoins both his bedroom and his book room. He walks ahead, but manages a glance at Lionel's backside as he goes. (The coat covers his arse, of course, but his legs have never looked shapelier.)

It happens that Mrs. Wells is just finishing her arrangements as they arrive. "How very prompt you are, gentlemen," she says. "I suppose you must have worked up a hearty appetite, Mr. Fusco, riding in that storm."

Finch flushes hot, but Lionel nods gamely. "Riding is exercise to give a man stomach for his meat, as old Mr. Ingram used to say."

"Did he indeed?" To Finch, she inclines her head. "I shall retire early tonight, sir, I see no call to come upstairs again before breakfast. If there's aught you need, you shall have to ring for it." 

The look she gives Finch is laden with meaning, but he has too healthy a respect for the woman's wit to give any reply but an acknowledging bow and a murmur of thanks.

The food is the best the house can provide, the wine plentiful. A decanter awaits them on the sideboard for after. The fire is ample enough to thoroughly warm the room, and the table is small enough that Finch's foot often brushes against Lionel's calf. Nothing more is wanted for perfect contentment.

Now is the opportune moment to present Lionel with the Question. Now, this very instant, while Lionel is still fond and obliging from their lovemaking, warm and pliant from the good meal.

"Are you well?" says Lionel. "You look as if you were in need of tonic."

Finch reaches for his glass. "Wine will serve for that."

"Are you still fretting yourself over Reese?"

 _Yes, my mind is much occupied with Mr. Reese. He is examining a house I wish to buy—abroad. I wish you to accompany me when I go. What say you?_.

"My dear, I am fretted over half a dozen items of no conversational interest whatever." Finch puts the glass down again. "I am sure Reese is very well."

"You seemed to feel differently an hour ago."

"The results of Mr. Reese's errands have great bearing on my interests, but apart from the usual dangers of a long journey overland, I cannot imagine that he is in any special difficulty."

"Very well. But don't think I don't see you picking at your food." Lionel squints through the dim candlelight. "Are your worries anything to do with me?"

Finch swallows hard and lays aside his knife. "Perhaps," he says softly. 

How to proceed? Declare himself all in a rush, as if his feelings can no longer be repressed? That would be dissembling; his feelings want very much to be repressed. Discretion has been the watchword since his early youth, and nothing has tempted Finch to forsake it until now. He needs Lionel. The risk he is taking is unquestionably worth the reward. Even so, the audacity of what he is about to propose makes his blood run cold. 

Lionel dabs at his mouth with a napkin and pushes his plate to the side. "That was a very fine dinner," he says. "Let's go back to bed. I see a bottle of brandy on the sideboard you might bring with you."

Finch blinks. The flesh all up and down his arms turns to pin-pricks. There will be other opportune moments, he decides. "As you command."

In the bedroom, Lionel strips off his coat, then his waistcoat, then contorts himself before the looking glass. "Disgraceful," he says, eyeing his posterior. "Is it your object to make a wanton of me?"

"Entirely the opposite," says Finch, his heartbeat loud in his ears.

Somehow, this is the wrong thing to say. Lionel's expression loses its teasing light. He straightens and begins to don his coat again and a small, pathetic voice in Finch's mind cries out in disappointment.

"Would you not be more comfortable the dressing gown?" he suggests feebly. 

Lionel gives him a look over his shoulder. He seems to search Finch with his gaze for an inordinately long time, as if he were deliberating a grave matter. 

"I suppose I did promise to oblige you after dinner," he says.

There is something disquieting in his manner, but before he can voice his misgivings Lionel is down to a single layer of garments. Finch reaches for him, as if by doing so he can mend whatever small breach has begun to open between them. 

Lionel willingly draws near, but then he leans back again, tugging at Finch's neck cloth. 

"Off with this," he says, thick fingers dextrous upon the soft silk folds. "With it all."

Dry-mouthed, Finch obeys. Coat, waistcoat, and cravat are surrendered and lain over the chair-back. He sits to remove his shoes next—his back no longer bends so far—but before he can begin, Lionel kneels at his feet to assist.

"It was I who promised to be your valet tonight," Finch says ruefully.

"Save your back for other sport." Lionel tugs the right boot free, then the left. 

Never had Finch tasted of his late wife's softness unless it was in the warm dark nest of their canopied bed. Nor has he ever stood thus bared before his lover, warming himself by the heat of bare skin. He feels vulnerable, a snail bereft of his shell. Lionel is soft and solid and warm, and Finch wants to crawl inside him, to shelter there, to establish possession. 

Their second coupling is completed so quickly that in the sweet haze that follows, it is almost difficult for Finch to believe that it was not a dream. He turns his head to look upon Lionel, a reassuring lump beneath the twisted blankets.

"Dearest," he murmurs. "Are you well?"

Lionel grunts, then lifts his head wearily from the pillow. The bed linens had already etched a red line into his cheek. "What's that?" he mumbles, bleary.

Now that he is upon the point, Finch finds himself quite unable to articulate the nature of his discontent. "Never mind, I should not have disturbed you," he says. "Go back to sleep." 

Lionel obeys almost before Finch stops speaking. Finch arranges himself upon pillows, and allows his fingertips to brush the chestnut curls repeatedly until the first snores rumble into night.

*

Finch wakes to hear the whisper of quiet movements in the dark room. He squints into the moonlight and is wide awake immediately. 

Lionel has left their bed, and is reaching for his trousers. 

"What are you doing?" Finch demands, pushing himself upright. His voice sounds high-pitched and quavering in his own ears, like the voice of a querulous old man. 

The movement stops, and a moment later the bed dips under Lionel's weight. "I did not mean to wake you," he says gently.

Finch strokes Lionel's brow, like a mother with a feverish infant. "You are unwell? You have taken cold, perhaps?"

"I am well, do not be uneasy." Lionel takes Finch's hands in his own. "I meant to bed down in my own room and get an early start for home."

"But there is no need for such precaution," protests Finch. "The servants do not return until Sunday after church, we have days yet."

"I wished to spare us both an awkward scene."

A chill runs through him from head to toe. Finch snatches his hands away, and fumbles to light his bedside candle. 

In the soft light, Lionel looks grim and sorrowful. Finch's tongue feels leaden. "Do you wish to leave me?" he whispers.

The silence which follows is deep enough to drown all Finch's hopes, until Lionel says, "I thought you wished it."

"Are you out of your senses?" Finch heaves himself out of the bed and looks down upon Lionel. "What have I done to give rise to such a belief?"

"All through dinner you had the look of a man waiting to deliver bad news. What else could you have to tell me that was so particular?" Lionel shrugs, and his stoic mask shifts just enough that the misery of the man beneath is briefly visible. "And then I got thinking about how you'd sent away the servants, so there wouldn't be anyone about if I should make a scene."

Finch wraps his dressing gown around his trembling limbs. "We shall see who makes a scene," he mutters, and begins lighting more candles.

When the room is bright enough, he moves to the sideboard and pours himself a small brandy, which he downs immediately. He pours two more and gives one to Lionel, who receives it with a questioning look.

"Drink," he orders. "And hear what it is I have to say to you."

Lionel accepts the glass with obvious foreboding. To keep at a distance from him gives Finch pain, but if Lionel should touch him now he will be undone.

"I have it in mind to leave the country before the summer." The sound of his voice feels flat and strange in his ears. "Ingram has written to say that he intends to marry a young lady he met in town—a friend of Samantha's, a Miss Shaw, whose family have invited them to stay in —shire after the end of the season. I can only imagine they will be wed shortly after."

"Some nerve Mr. Ingram's got, turning _you_ out of the house," says Lionel, eyebrows hunkering low. "It is only thanks to your generosity that he possesses such a thing as a house, as I recall."

"Do not speak of that," says Finch sharply. 

When Lionel's eyebrows only become more thunderous, Finch sighs and bows his head.

"Forgive me, I led you into a misunderstanding. I did not mean to imply that Ingram wrote with the intent to send me packing. I do not believe he had any idea of the kind."

"Then it is your own idea."

"It is necessary," says Finch. "When new Mrs. Ingram comes to take possession of her new husband's home, she will not be pleased to discover here an old bachelor, installed as a fixture. Besides, I have a great need of privacy, I dislike making new acquaintances."

"And so you are quitting the country." Lionel's voice is heavy. "Where will you go?"

"Geneva, perhaps." 

"Geneva?" Lionel rises from his seat on the bed. "You will leave England?"

Finch draws breath. He is a man about to dive from a cliff, with no sure notion of what waits beneath. "I wish for you to come with me when I go."

Lionel is too shocked to speak at first. "Leave Hertfordshire?" he says incredulously. "Leave Berry Hill Farm? Leave my son, and all our friends and neighbors?"

"Of course we would return for a few weeks each year, so as to see your son in the summer holidays," Finch hurriedly assures him. "As for Berry Hill Farm, Ingram is prepared to sell it to you. Absent owners do no injury if the land is left in the care of a trustworthy manager! I can recommend one."

Lionel looks, if anything, more aghast than before. Finch swallows, full of dread. 

"I understand that my proposal comes as a shock. There are impediments to be got around, to be sure, but none are insuperable. You may take time to consider—"

"Oh, may I?" Lionel says. "I am glad to hear it. I was beginning to think you had left nothing at all for me to do."

Finch purses his lips. "If I had not given thought to these matters before making my proposal, you would rightly have refused me on the grounds that the enterprise was too reckless."

"Perhaps that's so." Lionel takes his empty glass back to the sideboard. His hand rests briefly on the decanter before he turns away. "How the devil would we explain ourselves? Or is a fine gentleman like yourself above caring for the opinion of all his friends and neighbors?"

"The story I will put about is that I go abroad upon the recommendation of my physicians." Finch gestures vaguely; his infirmities are evident enough. "In all my dealings in the village, I have never lost a chance of presenting you to this or that acquaintance as my most trusted friend and intimate companion. When it becomes known that I have asked you to accompany me, people will talk—"

"I am relieved that you know it."

"—but it will not be a scandal. Your family will not be shamed. I—" 

Finch grips the back of a chair. He is not maudlin by nature, but he sees now that all his careful planning, all the tender hopes he has nurtured, are to be for nothing. The anticipation of grief to come settles over him like a kind of delirium.

"I would not shame you for anything," he says weakly. "But I know that this is much to ask."

"I would not shame you either."

Finch peers at Lionel, unsure what would make him say such a thing. "You could never be a shame to me," he says assuringly. "It is quite impossible."

Lionel bursts into pacing, his manner one of general agitation. Finch watches him traverse the carpet, unable to look away. 

"You're clever," Lionel declares. "I daresay you're the cleverest man I ever knew or heard tell of, but you're a simpleton about some things."

"If you say so I would not deny it."

"Hereabouts, people's minds are fixed upon their farms and their families. They're too honest or too simple to imagine the sorts of secrets rich men keep. But supposing we really did set up housekeeping together in some foreign city where folk are a bit shrewder. If we were found out, you would soon find yourself in the clutches of blackmailers, and then, sir, there would be shame enough to go around."

Lionel is glaring at him, his nostrils flaring, his breath coming heavily. He looks fierce and resolute. Finch's heart swells to bursting point.

"My dear," he breathes. "Shall I paint you a picture of what I would do to the man who so threatened our happiness? I will need all my reddest tints."

There is silence for the space of half a minute. Lionel's eyes are very dark.

"'S'pose it never even occurred to you that I might be the one doing the blackmailing one day," he grumbles.

"Not even for a moment," says Finch." Why should you do such a thing? If you but said the word, I would deed you half my estate."

Lionel turns red, then white. "Simpleton," he hisses, stabbing a finger at Finch.

Finch sinks down upon the settee and watches Lionel as he moves around the room, picking their clothing up off the floor. (Another failure in Finch's brief career as a valet.) 

A little more than a year ago, Finch had returned to the house from some trivial errand in the village to find one of Ingram's tenants arguing with a groom. Lionel's son, then a lad of seven, had not come home for dinner, and Lionel was minded to ride out looking for him. He had come to collect his horse from Ingram Park, where she was stabled, only to encounter a groom who did not know him by sight, and would not hear of his taking Jemima out until Mr. Ingram should give permission. But Ingram was not home, and Lionel was fast losing daylight for his search.

By the time Finch came upon the scene Lionel was red-faced with fury, but he had not knocked the groom down, which in Finch's judgment showed heroic restraint. He seemed a bonny fellow, clever and courteous when spoken to, and Finch had been moved to involve himself as he never did in the affairs of his neighbors. They had set out to search for Lee together.

The following night, Finch took Lionel to bed for the first time.

"I suppose I am what you say." Finch looks down at his hands. "I have known since almost the moment we met that I was fated to love you. Surely only a simpleton would cherish such a fancy, and yet the presentiment proved true. I have loved you quite helplessly for nigh a year. Had I not wished to take my time courting you, I would not have waited this long to ask for your hand."

Lionel stops what he's doing and turns a look of utmost consternation upon him. "I have no recollection of any request of the kind. Pray tell me, _when_ did you ask for my hand?"

Finch starts to reply, then falters, uncertain. "I suppose I thought the implication to be clear when I asked you to remove with me to another country."

In three strides, Lionel crosses the room. The silk dressing gown flares out behind him like the wing of a great bird. He stops before the settee, fixing Finch with his gaze. 

"You are presumptuous," Lionel declares.

"I own it," says Finch. His heart flutters in his throat.

"And this is all making a mountain of a molehill. I see no reason at all why you must leave Hertfordshire, to say nothing of England, simply because your friend means to be married. I have no wish to live anywhere else. This has been my home and my family's home for many generations."

"I quite understand," Finch whispers.

"But you would be most welcome to come and stay with me at Berry Hill Farm. There is room enough, and the neighborhood will not think the worse of you for boarding at the home of your most intimate friend in order that you might make way for the newlyweds. What say you to _that_?"

Lionel looks smug. Finch stares at his dear pink face, and feels dizzy. 

"I never dared to think…" A delighted laugh bursts from his lips. "Whatever would I do with myself at Berry Hill Farm?"

"What do you do with yourself at Ingram Park? For that matter, what did you expect me to do with myself in bloody Geneva?"

"I did not think," Finch confesses. "I was so afraid you would refuse me that I did not dare to think."

Lionel's expression warms and gentles. "Why ever should I do such a thing?" he says.

 _Oh_ , is the shape that Finch's mouth makes. 

When the tears start he tries to cover his face, but Lionel leans in to kiss them away.

*

The hour is late when Finch and Lionel make their appearance in the breakfast room. A letter bearing Ingram's seal sits atop a stack of letters next to his charger. It is quite three times the amount of correspondence he customarily receives.

"Did Ingram write again?" says Lionel, helping himself to toast. "Let us hope that this one does not put fanciful notions into your head."

Finch grimaces and begins to scans the letter's contents. Halfway through he gasps loudly, unable to conceal his annoyance.

"Confound the girl!" he cries.

"Yes?" says Lionel. "Come, what's the news?"

Finch removes his spectacles to rub his eyes. "My god-daughter," he says, "has eloped."

"And why should Miss Root do a thing like that?" says Lionel, all amazement. "She never gave a pin for any of the young gentlemen hereabouts."

"That is the material point." Finch tosses the letter aside and reaches for his coffee. "She has eloped with Miss Shaw."

"How's that?" Lionel looks as though he is of the belief that Finch might be laughing at him secretly. "What sort of elopement are you speaking of?"

"The usual kind! Ungrateful children, putting their guardians' neatly ordered plans all into disarray without so much as a by-your-leave." 

When Lionel continues to look question-marks at him, Finch rallies himself to explain.

"Ingram and Miss Shaw were meant to be married first." He lifts the lid on a tray of kippers, and immediately puts it back, grimacing. "The new Mrs. Ingram would then take up permanent residence at Ingram Hall. Miss Root would remain living here, as her new step-mother's companion. Ingram returns to his townhouse and his mistress, and I find a new situation." He shrugs when Lionel begins to gape. "We promised them a trip to the Continent with a generous allowance in the spring, but it seems that they could not wait."

Lionel sits a moment, holding his toast in one hand. His other hands tightens around the butter knife. 

"Harold," he says, "am I to understand that you were prepared to leave the country because you did not wish to stay in this house alone with Miss Root and her sweetheart?"

"Eat your breakfast," says Finch, taking up the next letter in his correspondence pile and resting his foot against Lionel's firm calf.


End file.
